The Search

I'm typing it in again—

the thing I've typed maybe

five times this year,

the same question,

the same search bar,

the same predictable answer

appearing

like it's never appeared before

even though I know

I've seen this exact result

before, and before that,

and before that.

I'll remember this time.

I'll hold it.

I'll write it down.

I won't need to search

again.

I always say that.

I never follow through.

The answer loads.

I read it.

I think, Oh right,

of course,

how could I forget this?

And then I close the browser,

and by next month,

it's gone.

Completely gone.

Erased from whatever part

of my brain

is supposed to keep

specific information.

My friends don't understand.

They remember things,

hold information like normal people,

like people whose brains

don't leak.

But mine does.

My brain is a sieve.

Certain things stick—

my third grade teacher's name,

the exact way my father

said my name

when he was disappointed.

But this thing?

This simple, practical,

useful thing?

Gone.

I type it in again.

The search bar knows me now.

The predictive text

has already learned

what I'm about to ask

for the fifth time this year.

The answer loads.

I read it.

This time I'm going to remember.

I won't.

I'll be back here

next month,

asking the same question,

getting the same answer,

forgetting the same way.

My brain has decided

this is how it works.

And I've decided

to stop fighting it.

I just search.

And forget.

And search again.